No! He's My Sam
by BlueEyedDemonLiz
Summary: Someone wants a piece of Sam, shame then that Dean never did like to share. Short story, 4 chapters with added limpness.
1. Chapter 1

**No! He's My Sam**

_Someone wants a piece of Sam, it's a shame then that Dean __doesn't __like to share._

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own the boys because if I did, I'm sure I'd be busy right now : )_

_No __beta on this one so all mistakes are__ mine. __Warning for some bad language because Liz has a potty mouth. __Set just after AHBL part 2._

**Chapter One**

Sam's been gone two hours. _Two hours_ and Dean has almost got a bald spot on the top of his head from where he's been yanking at his hair. Sam only left to fetch some food and Dean's starting to think he needs a new hobby because Sam watching sucks big time. He's been glaring out of the motel window now for the last thirty minutes and no, not one Sammy in sight. If this keeps up he'll never earn his Sammy spotting badge.

It's not like Dean hasn't got a right to be worried. Sam's not exactly got a great track record when it comes to fetching food..._that motel room in East Texas, went out to fetch some burgers and...see if they've got __any __pie, bring me __some __pie_...but Dean doesn't want to think about that thank you very much, not when he's already gagging on his heart which is lodged in his mouth.

Another hour drags by and Dean really has got a bald spot on the top of his head now. He's shuffling around the motel room clutching his cell phone because Sam's not called and Dean's called sixteen times but just keeps on getting voicemail. Yes, Dean's pretty sick of hearing Sam's voicemail message but that doesn't stop him from calling again and he doesn't hang up until the message is over.

Ten minutes later and Dean's out the door, shoving on his coat and hurrying into the biting cold air. Freezing hail and wind slapping at his face like the weather felt some sadistic need to join in the conspiracy to guarantee Dean has a really crappy time. Sam went on foot, but three hours and ten minutes is a heck of a long time to fetch food especially when you've got circus stilt legs like Sam has. Dean leaves the motel realising he doesn't know which way Sam went but this is Hicksville Nondescript town, USA and there are only so many places where Sam could buy food. Dean knows there's a burger joint just a short walk from their motel, so that's as good a place to start as any.

Dean's almost at the burger joint when he spots a familiar figure bobbing down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Dean knows it's Sam from the way his brother's chestnut haired head is towering above the milling locals but Dean pauses to take a second look because whilst Sam is carrying a bag of food under one arm and a bottle of soda under the other, he's sauntering in the wrong direction, he's walking _away_ from their motel.

"Sam!" Dean shouts crossing the street and breaking into a little jog to try and catch up with Sam, whose mammoth strides means he's nearly out of sight. The whole situation would be a lot less aggravating for Dean if he didn't really fucking hate jogging. _Running for __pleasure,__ when __there's not some frighteningly hideous hell spawn chasing you, just pure craziness_.

Sam doesn't stop, doesn't even look round so Dean shouts again only louder, "SAMMY!"

Sam's still walking which is weird because Dean nearly popped his own eardrums with his yell that time and although Sam doesn't seem to have even heard him the locals sure have. Various men, women and children scuttle to get out of Dean's way as he barrels down the sidewalk after his brother. Dean's virtually purple in the face and panting but he finally captures up with Sam grabbing himself a handful of Sam's tan jacket sleeve, effectively pulling him to a halt. Sam turns and seeing Dean breaks into a huge smile. "Oh. Hi Dean."

Dean's furious. Whilst he's been panicking Sam's fine, without a scratch and he's _sauntering_. As though he suddenly thought it would be a nice idea to go for an afternoon stroll whilst their food goes cold and Dean and his rumbling stomach sit at their grotty, not been renovated since the first moon landing, motel twiddling their thumbs.

"Jesus. Where the hell you going Sam?" Dean manages to blurt out in between gasps for air and Dean thinks maybe he really should take up jogging because he was pretty sure he was fitter than this. Dean knows he's still shouting but doesn't care, although the stares he's attracting from nosy locals isn't helping to improve his mood.

Sam's not answering; he's gawping at the horizon over the top of Dean's head. Dean realises now that Sam looks strange although if you ask Dean, Sam's always looked strange but this is different. His smile has dropped and his expression is blank. His eyes are vacant, unoccupied because evidently Sam Winchester is not in right now. Dean's still furious but worry is beginning to creep in.

Dean shakes Sam's arm, trying to elicit some kind of response but Sam ignores him and his legs start working so that he's moving again, away from Dean and away from their grotty motel. Dean jumps aside so as not to get flattened by scary starey Sam and watches open mouthed as his brother continues on his way.

"Friggin' hell Sam, stop goddamn it!" Dean's getting pissy but it's only because he's meant to be relaxing. The whole reason for stopping in this dead-end burg was so Dean could catch up with a little R&R (_Raunchy __Rebecca__ –__ Dean keeps her cell number on speed dial_). By rights, he should be on his third beer by now. Sucking dried ketchup from his fingers and patting his full stomach before heading out for a night of fun and frolics with R&R but he's not. He's freezing cold, icy water dripping from his hair, running in rivulets down his forehead and he's chasing Sam. Sam, who he let out of his sight for ten minutes (_okay__ so three hours __and ten__ minutes but Dean's not in the __right __frame of mind__ to discuss__ fine __details_) and he's gone and got himself whammied.

Dean's not the genius Sam is when it comes to research and Dean's had exactly diddly squat amount of time to do any research but he's almost certain that's what's happened to his brother. Either that or Sam's suddenly decided to do a little method acting for a role as an extra in a remake of "Children of the Damned". Dean doesn't know, doesn't care. Someone's getting their ass kicked for messing with his brother's head and for wasting his precious R&R time which, by the way, Dean had _really_ been looking forward to.

Sam's still heading down the street and disappearing round the corner. Dean doesn't know what else to do apart from physically haul his brother's heavy ass back to the motel but that's not going to answer the question as to what the hell is going on. So Dean does the only other thing he can think of, he follows Sam.

SNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam's walking relentlessly and he's started talking to himself too which is freaking Dean out more than the staring and the striding because at first Dean thought Sam was talking to him and Dean was trying to make out what Sam was saying before he realised Sam wasn't talking to him, Sam was having a conversation with someone only he can hear and see. _Like that dude in 'Quant__u__m Leap'_ Dean thinks, only Dean doubts it's Al that Sam's talking to, especially because Sam keeps mumbling "I'm coming, my love."

Sam stops striding so abruptly that Dean almost smacks face first into the back of Sam's jacket, except that Dean's totally like a ninja so he's way too swift and agile for a clumsy mistake like that, he likes to leave that kinda thing to Sam. They're stood outside a ramshackle house that looks older than God and Dean's nose crinkles in disgust at the weird smell wafting from the open windows. Sam doesn't hesitate; he runs up the porch steps, opens the front door and hurries inside, promptly being swallowed by the yawning darkness within. Dean can feel his heckles rise and knows he's going to be kicking the crap out of something pretty soon so he pulls the semi automatic which he had tucked in the back of his jeans and advances towards the front door.


	2. Chapter 2

_Huge hugs to __Cerdo __Volador, __sendintheclowns__, sammygirl1963, Thorny Hedge, __Poaetpainter__, supernaturalsammy67__ and __Skag__ Trendy__ for their kind reviews. _

**Chapter 2**

The inside of the house is as dilapidated as the exterior. Most of the furniture appears to be broken and covered with a thick layer of dust. The wallpaper is faded and peeling away from the walls. There's a general stench of decay in the air which reminds Dean of death, as though the place died years ago and nobody could be bothered to bury the remains. There's a record player crackling somewhere in the distance, playing some operatic shit (well it sounds like a lady wailing her lungs out anyway) but Dean's not certain because it sure ain't rock.

Dean goes down the hallway and to the first door which he pushes open. He let's out a relived sigh when he sees Sam's in there and he looks unharmed although he's knelt on the floor with his eyes closed and his head resting in someone's lap. Dean raises his gun and circles around the large armchair in which that certain someone is sitting. Dean's incredibly disappointed because it's an old lady, a _frail_ old lady and he really did want to kick the crap out of something but that's beginning to look less and less like it's going to happen.

She's stroking Sam's hair with a wrinkled prune hand and Sam's face is peaceful, acquiescent with a look of pure bliss. A look very similar to the one Dean gets on his face when he opens a box of doughnuts and realises that Sam has saved him his favourite (sprinkle topping with gooey chocolate filling – if you wanted to know).

She spots Dean for the first time and knows what he's come for. "He's my Sam." She hisses.

"No! He's my Sam." Dean snaps back not quite believing he's actually having this conversation. Dean clears his throat and tries again. "No! He's my brother." She doesn't look impressed; as though Dean's claim on Sam had more impact the first time round.

"Do you know how long I've waited for someone like him?" She's asks fixing Dean with a steely gaze.

This is getting old fast and Dean's bored now there's nothing to shoot. Except he probably could still empty a cartridge into the old dear, he badly wants to, but it would probably mean he'd have to suffer through Sam's endless bitching about how he'd shot a feeble old lady. Dean really doesn't want to give Sam an excuse to get himself in a state because Sam will get whiny, Dean will get crabby and it'll all end in tears (Sam), scowling (Dean) and hugging (Sam…with Dean's hand patting his brother's back a little but that totally doesn't count as a hug).

"Look lady, I'm not interested in why you've got my brother on your lap…like…like some poodle but I want you to undo whatever you did to him, now!" Dean would like it pointing out that he's normally way slicker than this but he's wet, cold, hungry and did I mention seriously pissed off? So you'll have to forgive his lack of high quality retort.

"Oh, you're not getting him back. I'm keeping this one."

_This one?_ Dean doesn't want to know how many men the old lady has got through but he's got a bad taste in his mouth which makes him appreciate that it's probably a lot. Dean's had enough; his cup of patience has run dry. "Right, I'm tired of being civil." Dean growls and raises his gun to point at the lady.

"Sam." She says and as quick as a flash, Sam's on his feet, felling Dean like a tree with one quick sharp punch to the jaw. Dean knows he can kick Sam's ass from here into next week so Sam must have took him by surprise this time and was probably on his blind side, _yes that's definitely what happened._

The old lady gets out of her chair and seems surprisingly nimble for someone who must be at least, maybe a hundred. She steps over Dean and goes to a cupboard, picking up a framed picture which despite the layer of dust covering everything else in the house, is clean as a whistle, polished until the glass sparkles so much it hurts to look at it. But Dean has to look, hasn't got much choice, because she's lent over him shoving the picture in his face.

The photograph shows a young woman, obviously the old lady back in a time before she resembled something ready for a salt and burn, holding hands with a young man. Dean's jaw hurts like hell and he's so smacking the crap out of Sam when Sam is 'Sam' enough to appreciate it. But the more Dean looks at the picture the more the man in the photograph starts to bare a resemblance to Sam. Not completely, Sam's sort of unique but there's something there in the man's face, in his puppy dog eyes and too long hair which screams Sam. Dean's about to comment on it when something kicks him in the face and as his world goes dark, Dean's remembers noticing it was Sam's boot doing the kicking. _Oh yes, Sam's getting a smacking all right._

SNSNSNSNSNSN

When Dean wakes up it's dark, or at least wherever the hell he is, is dark. He's uncomfortable too because there's something sharp digging into his ribs so Dean reaches a tentative hand to probe underneath himself and…oh it's bones, he's laid on a pile of bones, _wonderful_.

Dean turns his aching head to the side and whilst the movement causes an angry midget to start hammering on his brain he's more concerned with the fact he's face to face, _face to bone_, with a human skull. Dean scrambles backward on his bum like a demented crab not because he's frightened at all, _oh no__ not frightened at all_, but because the skull is vomit inducingly gross. There's still some skin and hair hanging off it so the head is decomposing yeah but clearly hasn't been here years, more likely only a few months. There's an awful smell too which Dean recognises as what he smelt wafting through the house earlier and Dean vaguely wishes he had a cold so at least his nose would be blocked up some.

Dean reaches out a hand into the darkness and touches cold iron, iron bars to be precise. It doesn't take a Sam, for Dean to figure out that he's locked in a cage. He shakes at the bars; they rattle but don't give an inch, strangely enough iron's kind of strong like that. Dean sits there for a moment wondering if his day can really get any worse as the faint sound of opera starts to float through the air from somewhere above him. The endless screeching in Italian (or whatever) is making Dean want to saw his own ears off and then Dean's day really does get worse, much worse. He suddenly begins to notice a drop in temperature and can feel little goose pimples emerging on his arms. Whilst the inexperienced amongst us would put it down to a strong draft, Dean knows different. He shuffles himself round in the cage and sees the flickering image of a spirit sat looking directly at him, perched on the skull like a make-shift chair. _Oh crap_.

-0-

_So I thought 2 chapters but it's going to be 3...please review and let me know if you want to __read__ more.__ Oh and there may well be limpness before this story's through (a girls __gotta__ dangle a carrott somehow)_


	3. Chapter 3

_Huge grateful thanks to __skag__ trendy, __Cerdo__Volador, __sendintheclowns, __PADavis__, Thorny Hedge, The Original __Madackle__, supernaturalsammy67 and __Poaetpainter__ for taking time to review._

_This chapter was going to be __the__ last but then I did my back in (I'm 28, so way too young for __that type of__ thing surely__!) so have been struggling to sit hunched (Sam Winchester style) over my laptop. As such this chapter is shorter than I would have liked but __to turn your frown upside down__– we're __gonna__ get more time for limpness in chapter 4.__ ; D_

**Chapter 3**

The ghost was an elderly man, his craggy face weathered by the passing of years. Dean eyed the ghost carefully as the shimmering form continued to watch him silently. Dean hastily reached out for the iron bars of the cage thinking that if he could just wrench one free to use as a weapon..._Yeah that'd work, if you'd suddenly developed the strength of Superman. Outstanding idea Dean, pure genius._

"Stanley." The old ghost said abruptly in a rasping deep voice.

"I'm not Stanley." Dean stuttered, a little confused.

"No jackass, my name is Stanley." Stanley puffed out his cheeks. "She gone and done it again?"

Dean's was baffled so shrugged his shoulders.

"Jeez! Has - she - gone - and - done - it - again? Took another man to replace me?" Stanley asked, saying each word slow and deliberate for Dean's obvious benefit.

Somewhere deep inside Dean's brain, the clogs whirred into motion and it clicked that in front of him was the man from the photograph. Sure, he looked a few thousand years older and was of course dead but it was him alright. "You're her husband." Dean whispered. A statement not a question.

"Wow you really do have a room temperature IQ, I'm impressed."

Dean's features dropped into a spontaneous sulk. He was beginning to take a dislike to Stanley. "You know then, what she's been doing and you've just been letting it happen? Letting her take and kill all those men?"

"There's no reasoning with the woman. Anyway she doesn't just take them to kill em'" Stanley pointed a gnarled finger at the bones on the floor of the cage. "These are her rejects; she's been searching to find someone who reminds her most of me." Stanley seemed to sense the disbelief radiating from Dean, so he quickly continued. "She wasn't always evil. My death just hit her harder than most. She started dabbling in the occult. A hobby to fill the hole I left...I guess."

Dean choked back a harsh laugh. "Oh yeah, some hobby. Knitting, that's a hobby. Bridge Club, that's a hobby. Brainwashing and murdering young men? That sure ain't a ladies guild I've ever heard of! I don't get it, all this time and you've not lifted a finger to stop her?"

Stanley raised a transparent hand and waved it so that it passed back and forth through Dean's chest. "Can't touch nothing, I'm not strong enough. I should have moved on, my spirit is ready but her misery is binding me here. In any case she's changed. The dark forces she's been messing with, they've tainted her mind. So I stay outta sight, safer for me that way."

"Safer for you? She's turned my brother into her zombie boyfriend, doing..." Dean shuddered; he had been trying very hard not to imagine what she might be making Sam do. "...doing God knows what to him and I want him back."

Stanley sighed heavily, "I've seen how happy she is. I don't think she'll hurt him, she wants to keep him."

"I don't give a rat's ass what she wants, he's mine." _He's m__y __Sam...__Mine_.

Stanley considered Dean for a moment, rubbing a hand over his worn face. "She traps the essence of their free will and keeps it confined in a bottle locked in her bedroom. That's how she controls them...I'm not certain, but I've observed enough of her mumbo jumbo to hazard a guess that if someone were to release it, it'd free the person from under her spell."

Dean looked relieved. "How the hell do I get out of this cage?" he muttered, shaking at the bars once more.

"You really are the brains of the bunch aren't you? Why not try using one of the bones you've got your pretty little backside parked on to pick the lock. Rib bone might do the job nicely."

Dean frowned at the insult. He missed Sam. Sam would have thought of that and wouldn't have made Dean feel like a doofus in the process.

SNSNSNSNSNSN

In the end a finger bone worked best. Stanley was long gone but as the lock fell open Dean still slapped a satisfied grin on his face for Stanley's benefit. _See__ not such a __doofus_. He was in a cellar, it was still pitch black but Dean could smell the recognizable dank stench which only came from spooky old cellars, not to mention he'd bumped into a huge wine rack as he blindly struggled his way towards the stairs. Covert and ninja like, _of course_.

Dean found the bottle without difficulty, hidden away in an upstairs bedroom just like Stanley had said. There was no sign of Sam and the old lady, clearly both were otherwise engaged. N_ope, __so __not thinking about that. __Dean __really d__id__n't want the trauma of mental images__ or the therapy bills_. The bottle was made of glass, tinted blood red and etched with weird markings which Dean didn't recognise but knew his trusty geek boy sidekick probably would. He held it and peered into it, studying the strange mist inside as it swirled aimlessly in the contained space. Dean shook it, watching the mist shift around wildly before he remembered that if it was indeed Sam's essence, maybe it wasn't a genius idea to be shaking it around like a snow globe. Dean watched it for a moment longer, strangely captivated before smashing it to the floor. The glass shattered easily and the mist rose into the air before twining away out of the room and down the stairs. A minute later and Dean heard the faint sound of Sam's voice. "Dean?" Sam sounded freaked out and whiney and completely like his Sam. Dean chuckled but the smile was ripped off his face when he heard Sam scream.

-0-

_Aching back muscles aside, f__inal chapter up tomorrow__, with added limp as __promised :_


	4. Chapter 4

_Hugs and cookies to walkingdisaster6, __sendintheclowns__, The Original __Madackles__ and __Poaetpainter__ for their latest __reviews : )_

_Warning: __humour deficient, __angst chapter alert._

**Chapter 4**

Dean ran down the stairs, leaping two at a time before dashing along the narrow hall into the tiny kitchen at the back of the house from where Sam's cry had emanated. S_cream, he screamed_. The door was open and as Dean got closer, he could see the old lady sat on the floor. Dean collapsed heavily against the chipped painted doorframe as he saw exactly why the old lady was sat there; Sam's head was nestled between her knees, resting on the wooden floorboards. Sam lay awkwardly in the small space, his gangly legs bent underneath him like a folded deckchair. Dean thought he might vomit or piss himself; both extremely likely because from where he was stood, he could clearly make out that the soft pink hues, _life_, had been bleached from Sam's face. His skin was already starting to grey. Dean's mind emptied, his reserves puddled on the floor. The old lady's mouth was moving but he could scarcely make out any words; the sound fading in and out like someone had gone crazy with the sound button on Dean's remote control. "...If I can't have him..." She was mumbling, wiping absently at tears which fell freely from her crystal blue eyes. _Jesus fucking Christ no, no, no, no, no._

Dean looked at Sam's arm stretched out as if reaching for the door. He slid down to the ground and let his finger brush against Sam's hand. Sam's skin was rapidly becoming chilled, his long slender fingers curled inwards towards the centre of his palm. Dean tried to ignore the fact that Sam's fingernails were tinged pale blue. Sam's eyes were turned up so Dean could only just distinguish the lower rims of the irises below his upper lips and it hurt Dean not being able to see his brother's eyes. _Did he know I wasn't there to hold him like last time? _

Unadulterated rage blurred Dean's vision and he was moving even before he'd thought it, scrambling to pick up the old lady and pinning her against the wall. He didn't know what she'd done to steal Sam's life so quickly. Didn't know if it could be reversed, just knew that his brother was dead, _dead_ _and Dean had nothing left to sell_. It was too overwhelming, too soon, too much like last time. _Sam's empty shell, cold and gray, __laid out but not sleeping __on a__ dirty__ ripped mattress_. Dean's rational side promptly took a long coffee break and he was acting on pure impulse as he clasped his hands around her thin skeletal neck and squeezed, his lips twisting in a wicked snarl as her eyes started to bulge and her fingers clawed feebly at his.

"Margaret?" Stanley's voice surprised Dean but he didn't let go of her neck. He wanted to squeeze until the evil bitch stopped breathing but then...then Sam would still be dead and Dean would be the only Winchester left standing. _Wrong, all wrong._

"Margaret?" Stanley said again, his voice breaking as he spoke. "What have you done?"

The old lady, Margaret, fell gasping to the floor as Dean released his hold. Dean stood frozen in place, his hands still held out in front of him.

"Stanley? I've missed you." Margaret said dazedly from where she lay crumpled on the floor.

"You've got to make this right Margaret." Stanley whispered as he crouched down beside his wife. "Please, for me?"

Margaret's eyes flooded with tears. "You'd still have me? Even after all I've done?" she asked desperately.

"Do one last good thing Margaret." Stanley nodded as he reached out a hand, translucent fingers mimicking the action of stroking her hollow cheek.

A flicker of a smile crossed her lips and she began to recite an incantation. Dean moved away from her, lowering himself to the floor by Sam's side. Watching helplessly he placed his warm hand in Sam's cold lax one.

The atmosphere in the room crackled and shifted, something akin to electricity pumping through the air, making the hairs stand up on the top of Dean's head. Wispy smoke filled the room, twirling around Sam and Margaret. As the last few words escaped her lips, Margaret's body went limp and Sam...colour slowly started returning to his face. His stationary chest was suddenly moving, heaving to suck in great lungfuls of air as his eyelids blinked rapidly. Dean pulled Sam up so that his brother's back was lent resting against his chest. Without thinking, Dean planted a brief kiss on the top of Sam's chestnut head and smiled as he felt his brother's heart thumping steadily.

The room went quiet and still. Margaret was dead and Stanley had gone. Dean wondered whether Margaret and Stanley truly were together or separated by heaven and hell. Or were they still here? In some kind of limbo, trapped in this old house but together all the same. All thoughts of them slowly evaporated and Dean let himself focus instead on the wonderful sound of Sam's gentle breathing.

SNSNSNSNSNSN

"You know if you were getting a little sexually frustrated you could have told me Sammy, I'd have hooked you up with a date." Dean smirked as he drove the Impala through the empty moonlit streets.

Dean's remark received an eye roll and loud huff from the passenger seat beside him. The kid had taken the bait quicker than usual; Dean had him like a fish on a hook.

"We passed a retirement home on the way into town. Want to stop by and check it out for a little Granny Moses love action?"

"Dean!"

"Or there's a cemetery over on Smithson Avenue, I hear the chicks there are smokin'...especially the cremated ones."

"DUDE!"

Dean stifled a snigger and threw Sam a fond glance. "I'm glad I got to keep you."

Sam grinned broadly, dimples emerging for the first time in days and for Dean, it was a joy to behold.

They drove in silence for a short time but as Dean stole another glance in Sam's direction, he noticed Sam's smile had faded and Dean's internal emo alarm instantly triggered.

"I'm going to keep you too Dean." Sam said quietly. _He's my Dean...M__ine_.

Dean stared at Sam, taking in the strength of resolve which filled his brother's eyes. Suddenly it didn't seem to matter whether or not it would happen, in that moment Dean _believed_ Sam would save him from the hell hounds one way or another and for now that was enough.

-Finish-

_Sorry for the lack of humour in this chapter, guess we couldn't avoid a little __emo__ now that Sam's back. Hope you enjoyed it all the same, please review and let me know._


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